Hallie Erminie Rives

“ Following came a file of Turkish soldiers. Then a group of servants, wearing the uniform of the Waywode the town's chief magistrate and leading an ass, across whose withers was strapped a bulky brown sack. After flocked a rabble of all degrees, Turks and Greeks.
"Queer!" speculated Hobhouse. "It's neither a funeral nor a wedding. What other of their hanged cere- monials can it be?"
The procession halted on the rock-shelf over the deep pool. The soldiers began to unstrap the ass's brown burden. A quick flash of horrified incredulity had darted into Gordon's eyes. ”

“ Poetry is the lava of the imagination, whose eruption prevents an earthquake. Much the little en- vious knot of parson-poets who rule the reviews know about it!" he continued half satirically.
Hobhouse smiled quizzically. The man beside him had had a short and sharp acquaintance with England's self-constituted authorities in poetic criticism. Two years before, fresh from college, he had published a slender volume of verses. In quality these had been indifferent enough, but the fact that their author was a peer offered an attractive text for the gibes of the reviewers. ”